


After the Fall

by Overnighter



Category: The OC
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-26
Updated: 2013-01-26
Packaged: 2017-11-27 00:37:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/656073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Overnighter/pseuds/Overnighter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Thanks for the card, Mr. Cohen," he said. "No offense, but I hope I never see you again. You seem like a nice guy. You probably have a nice family. They're probably wondering where you are by now."</p>
            </blockquote>





	After the Fall

**Author's Note:**

> An AU in which Sandy and Ryan meet under very different circumstance, but still manage to connect.

"Sandy Cohen. Pleased to meet you."

Ryan nearly choked on the drag of the cigarette he was smoking, one foot up against the wall of the bodega. He snorted, instead, and threw the butt of his cigarette away in a calculated gesture. The voice was coming from deep inside the BMW idling at the curb, but was early enough in the evening that Ryan could make out the figure behind the wheel.

Small fucking world.

The older man with his shaggy dark hair and his expensively rumpled suit seemed to sense he'd done something wrong.

"That probably wasn't smart, hunh?" he said with a good-natured shrug, and fiddled with the steering wheel in a half-embarrassed gesture.

Ryan decided to take pity on him, and with a slow roll of his hips he disengaged himself from the wall, and sauntered over to the open passenger window of the BMW.

He'd been running late, and hadn't really had time to do more than shower and re-dress, so he was still wearing his jeans and work boots, with a clean wifebeater on top. He was cool in the autumn air, but his hoodie was more "homeless thug" than "fresh meat," so he'd decided to do without. The blast of warm air from the car felt good on his arms as he leaned his head against the door frame.

"Haven't you ever heard of identity theft? Or blackmail?" he asked. It wasn't the best pick-up line ever, but he'd heard worse.

He was rewarded be a deep chuckle that matched the man's pleasant baritone, and another half-embarrassed duck of the dark head.

So this was the guy that had been cruising the corner all week. Chardo was worried that the navy blue BMW was an undercover sting, but Ryan was pretty sure that the Chino PD didn't own anything that high end. Even if they had, he doubted they'd be using it for busting small-time hustlers outside the B&H bodega on the corner of Euclid and East Philadelphia. High-end cars were for high-end hookers, or big-time drug dealers. Chino specialized in the downgraded and the down market.

"I guess I'm not very good at this," the man - Sandy Cohen - confessed.

Ryan couldn't believe it. Of all of the people he'd ever expected to see here, his one-time, nearly-forgotten lawyer was not one of them. He was pretty sure that Sandy hadn't recognized him, but then, they'd only met for an hour or so that one day in the Juvenile Detention Center after he'd gotten busted with Trey.

He'd thought they'd made a sort of connection that day - hell, Sandy Cohen had even given him his card - but when Ryan showed up for his court date, in a too-small suit he'd borrowed from the closet of Theresa's dead father, there was a different PD at his table, a balding, grey-skinned man who smelled a little too much like peppermint at ten o'clock on a Tuesday morning.

The son of a couple of world-class drunks, and the observer of more drunken family and "friends" than he generally cared to remember, Ryan was an expert at telling the difference between the peppermint smell of Crest and the peppermint smell of schnapps, and he didn't think the combo of the two boded well for him.

The lawyer hadn't even bothered to introduce himself, although Ryan remembered he had said that Sandy'd had a family emergency of some kind. Sandy's original work had kept his charges under felony, but the other guy'd set up a plea bargain with the D.A. before Ryan had even set foot in the courtroom, and he'd done four months at the Juvenile Detention Center. Not the best ending, but again, not the worst.

Still, Ryan wasn't about to hold it against him, especially if his "family crisis" had really been a "coming out" crisis. He'd seen it happen before.

"What're you looking for, man?" Ryan asked, hoping to help the man over his awkward stumbling. Sandy looked a little chagrined.

"I, um, you know," he mumbled. Ryan snorted and rolled his eyes, not unkindly.

"Look, you seem like a nice enough guy, and I'm not trying to break your stones or anything. It's just, you gotta say it," he explained.

Sandy's formidable eyebrows knitted together for a moment before the penny dropped.

"Oh. Oh! Entrapment, I get it. That's very cautious of you. Very smart."

Ryan felt absurdly pleased, getting praise from a man whose dick, if things went according to plan, would soon be in his mouth.

Sandy took a deep breath, and turned back to watch his own hands gripping the steering wheel tightly.

"I would like to engage your...services, for the purpose of, well, for illicit, er, sexual - purposes. For which I'll pay you. A set amount," he added as an afterthought. "Is that enough?"

Ryan responded by reaching down and trying the car door handle. It was locked.

"Um, Sandy? If you want, you know, what you just said, you're going to have to let me in..."

With another embarrassed chuckle, Sandy disengaged the lock, and Ryan slid into the front seat.

The interior of the car smelled like butterscotch leather and expensive cologne and, Ryan thought strangely, a little of the far-off ocean. The radio had been playing NPR - Ryan recognized the distinctive voice of Nina Tottenberg - but Sandy thumbed it off with a button on his steering wheel. He started to twist in his seat toward Ryan, but Ryan held off the older man with a wave of his hand.

"We can't stay here. Just drive a few blocks up and I'll give you directions," he said, before Sandy could turn any further in the direction of the passenger seat.

After a few blocks of strained silence, Ryan directed him into a disused alley behind an abandoned ceramics factory. It was quiet, but not too quiet. In the beginning, Ryan had tried to find places to hide, and had been rolled for his money, and his ass, more times than he cared to remember. So now he had a string of places like this - semi-private, out of the way, but still with enough foot traffic to give him both cover and an escape route. Not like juvie. Not like home.

Sandy pulled the car to a stop and glanced over at him from under his stylishly tousled hair, a trick that Ryan used himself, and which unsettled him more then he cared to admit.

"Is this - are we here?" he asked. Ryan nearly laughed at the shock in his voice.

"No," he answered, deadpan. "I'm just taking you on a scenic tour of greater Chino. I'm a big civic booster."

For a moment there was dead silence, and then Sandy's big laugh boomed out again.

"Fair enough. So, how do we do - this?" He asked, his voice dropping to a near whisper.

Ryan turned towards him, to where he was still still buckled into the driver's seat behind the steering wheel. He studied the man in front of him for a long minute.

He wasn't handsome, exactly, more like a caricature of what someone thought masculine handsomeness should be. Everything on his face was a little too broad, a little off-center, to be truly aesthetically pleasing. Still, he was attractive.

His hands, still gripping that steering, were soft, the nails neatly trimmed. He looked like he had a decent body under the suit that was so artfully disheveled that Ryan was fairly sure its cost would feed his whole household for a week, with enough left over to pay the light bill. He looked like he might work out. He also looked like he was going to throw up.

That was okay. This part, Ryan was good at. Unless the guy was truly repellent, he could work up a head of steam for just about anyone. Rollo had suggested he learn, early on; he said it would make everything easier, and he was right. It was easier. Most of the time. So, he could get Sandy over the hump, so to speak.

He reached over with a deliberate motion and unsnapped Sandy's seat belt. It made a soft whisper of sound as it retracted across that broad expanse of chest, that expensive fabric.

"How do you want to do this?" he asked.

His voice was harsh, clogged with cigarette smoke and construction dust and the heat of this familiar stranger next to him, and he used it to his advantage. He sounded husky and a little turned on, and he could see Sandy Cohen respond to that, almost against his will.

Without waiting for an answer, Ryan leaned over the gear shift and captured the older man's mouth in a kiss. He felt Sandy go rigid beneath him, but he didn't pull back. After a moment, Ryan felt his resistance ebb, and he waited until Sandy had actively started to respond before probing his tongue into the lawyer's dry mouth. Ryan was amused to realize that he tasted faintly of toothpaste, as though he'd cleaned up in anticipation of their encounter.

He moved his hand from its resting place on the emergency brake towards Sandy's lap, and the older man jumped back so suddenly that Ryan bit his own tongue, and Sandy bashed his head against the corner of the window frame.

"What the hell?!"

Sandy was looking at him, wild-eyed and panting, and suddenly Ryan recognized a sort of twisted kinship in his eyes.

"Jesus! This really is your first time, isn't it?"

Ryan drew back to a safe distance, letting the gearbox become a natural barrier once again. He leaned back against the window, tucking his hands into his armpits so that Sandy could see they were out of reach. As he did, the man nodded jerkily, apparently in answer to his question, and his quickened breath began to slow.

Ryan gazed at him, assessing, as he seemed to pull himself back together. In the distance, even through the thick glass of the luxury car, he could hear the faint sound of children laughing and shrieking in a mix of Spanish and English, the fainter sounds of the bells of Our Lady of Guadalupe ringing out vespers, and the faintest sound of far-off traffic. Inside the car, there was only ragged breathing.

Sandy's hands clenched and unclenched spasmodically, gripping the soft grey fabric of his trousers instinctively. On the lawyer's left hand was a plain gold band, a fact that had escaped Ryan's attention before. He sighed.

"Mr. Cohen - Sandy - you don't have to go through with this. You could just drive away and leave me here, tell yourself this was a one-time thing, a really, really bad idea."

He watched, but Sandy just stared at him, impassive.

"Or you could just go home to your wife and your kids and pretend it was all a dream."

Sandy flinched at that, and a lock of his dark brown hair fell into his eyes. Without thinking, Ryan leaned forward and brushed it back.

"No one will know. Who would I tell?" he added, shocked at the heat he felt under his fingers. Almost absently, Sandy leaned into his touch.

"I can't," he said in a strangled voice. "I tried. I wanted...I can't not" he repeated. "I can't help myself."

Ryan let the back of his hand drift across Sandy's cheek for a moment, then pulled back again with a decisive nod.

"Okay, then." He opened the door of the car and the sharp, powdery odors of the old factory and the fading twilight hit him like a slap in the face. He slid out of the car and shut the door quietly behind him. He walked around to the driver's side door, and after a minute Sandy opened it and climbed out into the alley himself.

"How do you want to do this?" Ryan asked again, suddenly crowding the older man's space. Without a warning, he put his hands on the lawyer's shoulders and propelled him back against a wall. He kissed him again, fiercely, demanding entrance this time rather than waiting for it, and although he felt Sandy shudder beneath him, he pushed on. He moved his hands down his shoulders, across his back before cupping his buttocks through the thin, summer-weight wool of his trousers.

Sandy gasped against his mouth, and Ryan re-positioned himself, grinding his hips against the older man's burgeoning erection.

"What do you want, Sandy?" he whispered in his ear as he moved his hands again, one drifting up to clutch that expensive haircut, the other seeking, and finding, the stiffening cock the lay against the lawyer's thigh. This, he could do.

Ryan liked to be in charge. He had a certain small clientele that preferred it that way - that had always dreamed of taking orders from the rough boys who had beaten and tormented them in school, and in life - but most of his tricks were looking for something else entirely.

He tried to take mostly rough trade - lonely, aging gay men; guys out of prison looking for a mercy fuck - but somehow the Sandy Cohens of the world always seemed to find him.

Family men, driving down to Chino from far-off Orange County, looking for dusky boys that looked like the pool boy or the gardener, found instead this blond-haired kid with the all-American smile, who reminded them of their surfboard-toting neighbors, or their daughters' boyfriends or their soccer-playing sons. He took those tricks with far less enthusiasm - bent over the soft leather seats of expensive-smelling cars like the navy-blue BMW, answering to "Brad" or "Mike" or "Ben" - feeling the self-loathing of the men pounding away behind him in every punishing stroke, in the way that they turned him away from them so that he couldn't look into their eyes, so that he seemed more like whatever forbidden name was sighed out from their lips upon their completions.

But Sandy Cohen was new to this - new to this world and new to this act - and if he wanted to act upon a forbidden desire, he was going to have to learn how to ask like the rest of them. In the meantime, Ryan was in charge, and he planned to make it an experience that his erstwhile lawyer would remember, even if he had forgotten Ryan's name.

Ryan continued to grind against Sandy's thigh, locking eyes with him in between soft bites against the base of his throat, the corner of his lips.

"What do you want, Sandy?" he repeated. He could feel the man start to shudder and shake beneath his hands; if they didn't move this along soon, there would be nothing to move along to.

"You," the lawyer finally gasped out, his breath hot against Ryan's lips, "I want you."

Ryan kissed him passionately again, then stepped back a moment, allowing the man to regroup.

"You want my mouth or my ass?" he asked matter-of-factly. "Fifty for a blow job, a hundred for a fuck. Condom is not negotiable."

Sandy seemed overwhelmed by his choices.

"I'll blow you right here, or we can get back into the car for a fuck. Or the other way around. I don't much care."

Sandy continued to gape, his hands grasping for Ryan, who remained carefully just out of reach. Now was the delicate time. The trick was turned on, but he could still turn out to be dangerous. Ryan wanted to believe that Sandy Cohen, who had once tried to save Ryan's miserable life, who had introduced himself on a street corner like he was at a Orange County gala, was incapable of danger, but hard experience had taught him otherwise.

Sandy made a frustrated noise in the back of his throat and finally ground out, "Your mouth. I want your mouth."

Fair enough.

Ryan leaned back in for a final, fierce kiss, then slid down to his knees in the alley with the ease of practice. He unclasped the belt - made of the same soft leather as the car seats - and loosened Sandy's trousers, pulling his pants and his boxers down with a smooth tug. Underneath the clean, dark musk of well-pampered desire released by his actions, Ryan smelled a woman's faint perfume, but he pushed it ruthlessly out of his mind.

Sandy had sturdy legs and a sturdy, thick cock weeping pre-come, his purplish balls hanging heavy beneath it, all covered in a thick dusting of wiry, dark hair. Ryan stroked the bare cock with a fingertip, watching it jump, then dipped a finger in the pre-come, spreading it around gently. He could hear Sandy's irregular panting above him, feel him twitch and writhe beneath his hand. Ryan slid a condom from his pocket and onto the now-lubricated member with a minimum of fuss, cupping the hot, heavy balls in his other hand as a distraction as he did it.

With no other warning, he bent his head and enveloped Sandy's length in one swallow. He felt, rather than heard, the gasp above him, and moved the hand holding the balls back farther, to rub gently against the smooth perineum.

A blow job never tasted like anything but latex and spermicide to Ryan, but he liked the wet, hot feel of the jittery, lively flesh beneath his tongue. Above him, Sandy continued to make strangled sounds, and after a moment, his hands found a grip in Ryan's hair. He wasn't trying to direct things at all, though - his fingers flexed and unflexed as they had in the car, on his trousers, seeking purchase as his world exploded around him. Ryan risked a glance on an upstroke; Sandy's back was flat against the wall, his head thrown back and his eyes closed.

It didn't take long. Ryan could feel all of Sandy's emotions, his conflict, building behind the inevitable orgasm. In the end, he hadn't even moved a finger into the lawyer's ass - his surefire trick for ending a tedious, jaw-numbing experience. Sandy came - not with a cry, as Ryan had expected, but with a complete absence of sound. His mouth was opened in a silent scream as he pulsed into Ryan's waiting mouth, then collapsed, spent, against the wall.

Ryan removed the condom and tied it off with brisk efficiency, tossing it into a half-rusted can at edge of the alley. Sandy was still shaking and gasping, but when Ryan reached for his puddled pants, the lawyer batted his hands away, re-dressing himself, still in silence.

The twilight was almost completely gone now, the halogen arc lights popping on with a soft hiss in the street beyond the alley. Ryan raised himself to his feet, brushing off the knees of his jeans. He had to wear these to his day job tomorrow, after all. He leaned in and kissed Sandy on the lips again, tender this time, waiting once more for permission. It surprised him a little, that impulse, but Sandy Cohen had been kind to him once, and he supposed that counted for something, even now.

Sandy was the one who broke contact with a soft sigh, and then blinked, as if suddenly returning to his body. He reached out and grabbed Ryan's chin in his hand, faster than Ryan would have thought possible, faster than he was able to fight off. After a moment, though, Ryan realized that there was no threat in his soft grip, and he allowed Sandy to turn his head towards the light at the end of the alley.

"Oh my God, kid, how old are you?" he asked suddenly, despair threatening behind his smooth voice.

Ryan pulled away gently.

"Old enough."

Sandy sagged back against the wall.

"You're a kid. A young kid. My god, you look like you're my son's..."

He broke off at the mention of his son, and Ryan's stomach flipped. He wanted to believe that Sandy wasn't like those other tricks, that the connection that they had made that day was real. He didn't want to be another Brad or Mike or Ben to him, just this once.

Sandy laughed softly to himself and raised a hand to his forehead.

"I can't believe I just mentioned Seth. Of all times. I must be out of my head, kid," he said ruefully, peering at Ryan through the deepening gloom.

"Are you okay?"

Ryan was pretty sure that Sandy was speaking in existential terms.

"It's all right. I do all right," he answered, strangely touched by the man's sudden attack of conscience. He cleared his throat discreetly. "About that,"

Sandy pushed himself off the wall and walked over to the BMW. He opened the driver's side door again and leaned in, pulling his wallet out from beneath the seat.

"That's pretty smart," Ryan said, and meant it. He couldn't really see anymore, but he heard Sandy's answering chuckle.

"Thanks, kid." Ryan felt a wad of bills pressed into his hand.

"Hey, this is too much," he protested, leaning back into the light to make sure. There were at least three fifty-dollar bills there, plus a small wad of crumpled tens and twenties. That was almost as much as he'd make working his day job all week. He sighed, then plucked a fifty from the pile and handed it back with another sigh.

"Thanks anyway. But I provide a service. For a set amount," he added, repeating the lawyer's earlier, fumbling come on. "This is not a charity drive."

He heard Sandy's echoing sigh, but the lawyer took the money back.

"Fine. Turn away my guilt offering. Can I at least give you a ride back?" he asked.

Ryan nodded, then realized that Sandy couldn't see him either.

"Yeah, that'd be great, actually," he said, and went around to settle himself back in the passenger seat of the car.

Sandy followed closely behind him and started the car's quiet engine. Now that night had fallen Ryan was regretting his decision to leave his hoodie behind, and he was grateful once again for the warmth. He closed his eyes briefly, basking in the unexpected comfort, but he could feel the lawyer's gaze from beside him. He opened his eyes slowly, focusing on Sandy's earnest face turned towards him.

"What happened, kid? Where are you from? How did you get here?" he asked. Each of those questions was spectacularly stupid in its own way, but Ryan could feel not just the guilt, but the genuine concern behind them.

He sighed again, and shrugged his shoulders.

"I'm from Chino," he said finally. "Maybe I sprang, fully formed, from the head of Steve McQueen."

Sandy looked absolutely flabbergasted for a moment, then he threw back his head and laughed again. Ryan was already beginning to like the sound of it.

"Like Athena," he answered, still laughing, "You're a pretty smart cookie, kiddo."

Without another word he put the car into gear and drove Ryan back to the bodega. It was later, now, and there were a few more cars cruising by. Sandy looked anxious.

"Are you sure you'll be all right?" he asked as he pulled up to the curb.

Ryan nodded.

"I'll be fine. Thanks, for the ride and, you know," he said.

He had one hand on the ergonomic door handle when Sandy put his own hand to Ryan's elbow.

"Just wait a minute, kid." He fumbled around above the visor for a moment before coming up with a small, embossed card on heavy card stock. "It's my office. Take it, in case you ever need anything," he added.

Ryan half-smiled despite himself.

"Didn't we already have this conversation? Blackmail?" he prodded softly, "Theft?" Nevertheless, he reached out for the card and tucked it carefully into his left front pocket beside the fifty-dollar bill. He couldn't bear to tell him that the first card was still nesting in his wallet in Theresa's dresser at home.

"Are you here a lot?" Sandy asked, hand still on Ryan's elbow.

"Some. Not Wednesday nights."

"You have office hours?" Ryan heard the amusement in his voice, and ducked his head back towards the passenger side door.

"I'm taking a GED class once a week. It meets Wednesday nights."

"Good for you, kid."

Ryan heard another note in the lawyer's soft voice that he couldn't quite identify. He risked a glance back over at the older man as he opened the door, but the dome light obscured Sandy's features.

"Thanks for the card, Mr. Cohen," he said. "No offense, but I hope I never see you again. You seem like a nice guy. You probably have a nice family. They're probably wondering where you are by now."

He slid out of the car before Sandy could answer, and a moment later the BMW was gone. He looked over at his usual wall against the corner of the bodega. It was still pretty early. He could probably make another hundred or so before the night was over. He shivered in the autumn air.

Maybe tomorrow.


End file.
